


Undiscovered (We Have No Theme)

by cuddlepunk



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bullying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Romance, So smol, Teenager Patrick, Vandays, baby patty cakes, cute sleepy patrick, mentions of nirvana, this is gay, writer pete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 20:12:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5347082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlepunk/pseuds/cuddlepunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ve got it all there, the undiscovered talent, the eyes of an angel, the lips of a devil. Now we just have to uncover it. But you’re a young, fragile little being, as much as you’d like to deny it. Give it a few years, and kid, I’ll take you far. </p>
<p> We're letting go, fingers interlocked instead of scanning over pens and papers. This is forgetting what we're supposed to be doing and focusing on each other. I'm in love with you. You arch your back, neck rolling, and come in to hug me. I feel you yawn, too quiet to be heard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undiscovered (We Have No Theme)

**Author's Note:**

> waht r u talking about this is really about my romance ally
> 
> so i wrote most of this on the bus over the period of a few weeks while i was sleep deprived on my way to school so yeah
> 
> this is actually cute and not horrible and emo
> 
> this is a work of fiction, sadly i dont own patrick or pete or fall out boy and i definately don't own andy hurley have you seen that man, please don't be a soggy slice of french toast and share this with the bros of fall out boy, you get the idea
> 
> enjoy

You’ve got it all there, the undiscovered talent, the eyes of an angel, the lips of a devil. Now we just have to uncover it. But you’re a young, fragile little being, as much as you’d like to deny it. Give it a few years, and kid, I’ll take you far. 

The very element of potential, you are, and yet just budding, not yet mine for the taking. You sleep until noon, eating half my fridge whenever you come over. I’m more than fine with that, believe me. I want you to steal my thick hoodies and fall asleep in my bed. You can drink all the cola in my apartment, it’s not like I plan on drinking all of it alone. You’re growing. Make yourself comfortable, I’m gonna keep you safe. 

Explore my book collection, my instruments, read what I write and listen to each stack of cds lining the walls of my bedroom, if you want. Absorbing information, forming opinions and beginning to have views on the world. Semantics and philosophy, your intrigue in different topics and my explanations. I care about you. Disagreements happen, clashing ideals, frustration. That’s alright. That’s good. Tire yourself out playing video games on my shitty flatscreen and cat nap on my couch. I’ll cover you up with warm throw blankets and brush the greasy strawberry blond hair out of your closed eyes.

This is a safe environment. Let your feathers ruffle, know it’s always okay to distract me from whatever I’m doing and ask for attention. I’m here to satisfy whatever you may want from me. Your blue green blue green blue green blue blur golden eyes seem to fill with unsettlement when they meet with mine. I sigh and close the lid to my laptop, my arms wrapping around your waist and leaning your back into my chest. I softly dig my fingers into the pliable rolls on your sides, much to your dismay. I can’t help it, you’re adorable. Nuzzling my nose into the crook of your neck, running my hands up and down your front, wrists settled on your waist. 

I think about all the times people have tagged their lovers in something cute online because they didn’t have the guts or the words to make it happen themselves. I think about how sometimes, these people are weak, beautiful souls, too shy to show their true feelings. Sometimes these people are disgusting, resulting to the words of others to explain themselves. Their love is based off of plagiarism. Copy cats of what they’ve seen done millions of times before over the history of love.

We don’t need words to make us feel loved. I used to, I still do sometimes, when you’re not here. But when we’re together, I’ll throw out my useless, shitty words. It'll never be good enough. You are worth more words than I could ever possibly write out for you. I’m so sorry it has to be this way. 

You're rolling over to soft Sunday afternoons, hand thrown over my stomach and head settled between my neck and shoulder. Dusty blinds spread enough to send stripes of light over your form. Shifting slightly, softly snuggling your head into my chest. My wrist sliding against your shoulder blades, hand exploring the dip of your spine. Enjoy the feeling of pure rest, back pressing into my shitty mattress, your hand playing with the muscle and blood under the skin of my neck. We're letting go, fingers interlocked instead of scanning over pens and papers. This is forgetting what we're supposed to be doing and focusing on each other. I'm in love with you. You arch your back, neck rolling, and come in to hug me. I feel you yawn, too quiet to be heard.

It's hard to find the balance we have. Every concept in all of our minds weighing in on each other and tilting out of control. We're all different. We're all the same. Individuality and equality. Our world is changing at an alarming pace, ice caps melting into your back yard, and invasive species crawling around in your gutter. But I mean, this has been happening for billions of years. This is fine. Normal, even. I let the feeling of you laying against me fall through the layers of tissue covering my chest and sink into my heart. A certain thankfulness, twisting, never quite snapping. 

You ride the bus to school and try to imagine my hand in yours. Exhaustion racks your form and softly touches your head to cold, foggy windows. I ride to work and pretend that my wrists against the steering wheel are just settled in on your shoulders. 

You scrawl out pages of mindless numbers in letters and gaze affectionately at the stolen pen in your hand. Just the other day it rolled off my desk as I pushed you up against it. The ink runs slick and solid, like the thoughts caking the inside of your skull. I brush my eyes over stale cubicle walls, peering across page after page of messy penciled in ideas. I'll be out of here in an hour and picking you up for a snack out thirty minutes afterward. Scratchy Nirvana songs flow out of my immature phone and into office environments. I'll get told off for it eventually. 

My dusty sneakers leaning against the gas pedal, I ride up to your school and watch kids throw crumpled up paper at you as you wait for me. It’s kind of ridiculous because no matter how many people will tell you it gets better, or that you’re better than all of them, nothing ever really changes. People are shitting on you now, and even if the big bad adults will tell them to stop, big bad adults will shit on you later in life anyways. There’s nothing we can do about it. Hurting others as a means of bettering your own situation has been a practice of all organisms since science began. It’s inescapable. 

But at the same time, so is love and peace. As lonely as you may be, no matter how much you despise me, yourself, or anyone else, I’m never gonna leave you. You slip into shotgun and slam the car door in your wake, taking out the aggression of a million jiving voices pointed on yourself in the form of dull metallic blows. It’s alright. It’ll always be alright. 

Because I ask you about your day and you respond with a shrug and an uneasy expression, cranking up the heat in my car and leaning back into your seat. You part your lips and push out a simple. “But that doesn’t matter. How are you?”

I momentarily consider pressing my foot against the petal and heading straight into the front wall of your school. “It was fine. I was thinking about writing a book right?”

Patrick rolls his eyes, tapping his fingertips on the dashboard to an impromptu beat. “Of course. Go on.”

“Well, the theme of the book is that there is no theme.” He stifles a laugh. “No, I’m being serious! Imagine this story where everything is just.. I don’t know, conflicts and expositions happen, characters are involved, but the story doesn’t have a message. Maybe it ends in a tragedy. At the end, the lone survivor gives this internal monologue about how no matter how many times someone shoves a dose of “never give up” or “don’t sink to their level” down their throat, nothing will change. Our lives have no themes. This isn’t a children’s book ending in a cheesy catchphrase.”

His eyes scan the dashboard, lingering on the knuckles of my right hand. “Alright… Maybe you actually have something here.” I told him so! “... But wouldn’t it be better if it ended without the tragedy? Not a happy ending or anything, but if it just ended completely neutral and numb. No feelings or opinions to cloud anyone’s mind when the final message is delivered. A blank slate.”

“I like the way you think kid. McDonald’s or an actual restaurant?”

“Actually, I’m kind of feeling the whole “domestic gay couple” thing today. Erase the image of sticky brats losing their shit over whatever it is that the school is raving about today. I say heading to the supermarket and making something together.”

“Sounds good, love.”


End file.
